Archangel

My father's name was the name 
of an archangel: but not the one 
whose figure was plastered on every 
clear bottle of Ginebra San Miguel, 
lance raised over the cowering 
figure of Satan, backlit wings
resplendent in gold and orange. 
Ling, his friends called him; short 
for Iling, Gabrielito, Gabrieling— 
all the ways in which the sound 
of the diminutive could tinkle 
like the last ice cube in a glass 
before melting. It was a time 
when people swore allegiances 
that they might revoke in private; 
when unconfiscated copies of a new
biography of the dictator's wife 
were passed around in secret. 
He hid the paperback in a sock 
drawer and took it out to read 
at night. My mother and I 
could read it too, only if we 
promised to put it back. The author
described how the dictator's wife 
and her mother lived in the garage 
of her father's house: genteel 
poverty, the old-fashioned value 
of saving face. In school, where 
every now and then I heard
whispers that I'd been adopted,  
I learned the angel who shared 
my father's name was the one 
who appeared to the Virgin 
Mary. She shouldn't be alarmed 
that she'd stopped menstruating, 
as she was carrying God's child. 
Did the angel himself, in person or
as my father, bring the unexpected 
news of my arrival as well?